


Put Your Boots On And Let's Play

by jacksonwng



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Chandler gets attached, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kent is a single father, Kid Fic, M/M, Parenthood, Secrets, Single Parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksonwng/pseuds/jacksonwng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emerson Kent is a father.</p>
<p>No one knew about this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on Whitechapel kink meme about Daddy Kent
> 
> Unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own
> 
> Written for NaNoWriMo 2013

 

Emerson’s plan was never to keep his son a secret. It’s just something that ended up happening.

He had been young when Michael was born, and just promoted to detective constable at Whitechapel police department and in all honesty, it hadn’t been the best of times to suddenly become a parent. His girlfriend at the time, Bethany, she had agreed and while adoption had seen like the best idea initially, as the months went on, Emerson grew attached and giving up his son, his child, became an improbability that became impossible when he allowed himself to hold the baby boy in his arms for the first time.

Unfortunately, Bethany hadn’t felt the same way.

Things were hard, complicated even, as a single parent, especially with the hours that his job demanded upon an occasion, something that seemed to be coming more and more frequent, but he had help. His parents; his sister; Angie, the nanny he had hired when Michael was six months old. It wasn’t a perfect system, far from it in fact, but it worked for him.

Emerson probably should have known though, that eventually it would all come out. Nothing stays secret for long, not in his line of work and not when you are surrounded by detectives and the people that know you far too well.

His phone went off in the Incident room, the shrill vibration of the device across the surface of his desk cutting through and interrupting Chandler’s run down of the information they had gathered about a mugging that didn’t end as planned so far. The voice trailed off, startled, and tension grew. Eyes were drawn to Kent as he fumbled with the inside pockets of his suit jacket to reach his phone, silently cursing the fact that he had forgotten to turn it off that morning.

Angie’s name blinked on the screen and he felt worry consume him. He briefly thought about ignoring it, but he couldn’t. Angie only ever called him at work if it was strictly necessary - she was a fifty year old woman whose three kids were all grown and away from home now, she knew how to take care of one baby and had been doing it well for the past three years - and the last time it had happened, Michael had contracted the flu from one of the kid’s at his play group.

Emerson stood up quickly, the legs of his chair scraping on the flooring sharply. He shot Chandler an apologetic look and the older man frowned in return. As Emerson turned away, heading towards the far end of the room where hopefully he’d be able to converse without interrupting further, he had to push down the horrified feelings that not only had he shown himself up in front of his DI, but in front of Chandler too. It wasn’t difficult. Regardless of his work or his crush, his boy was far more important and always would be.

“Angie,” he greeted, his voice hushed.

“Oh Emerson, thank god I got through,” she sounded worried, panicked, stressed even, and that did nothing to quelch the nerves in the pit of his stomach, “I’m so sorry to call you at work hun, I know you don’t like it, but we’ve had a bit of an accident here.”

Emerson stood up a little straighter, eyebrows furrowing. “What happened? Is Mickey okay?”

“I only looked away for a second, I swear I did, you know I’d never leave the tyke unattended, but lunch was starting to burn and I thought he’d be fine behind the safety cage but,” she faltered off.

Emerson muttered a curse. It had been a recent development, only happening once or twice, but Michael was beginning to master the art of the baby gates. It had never happened when Emerson wasn’t there to stop him and he just hadn’t thought to mention it to Angie and shit...

“What happened?” he repeated slowly.

“He fell down a few stairs, slipped on the fourth step, hit his head pretty bad,” she explained, “I took him to the hospital as soon as I realised he was bleeding.”

“He was bleeding?” Kent yelped a little louder than he had expected to. The voice behind him faded a little and he glanced over his shoulder, a mixture of worry and guilt expressed on his face. He smiled tightly when he realised some eyes were still on him before returning to face purposefully to the wall. “How bad?”

“He’s getting checked over now. He kept asking for you and wouldn’t calm down so the doctor suggested I give you a try,” Angie told him worriedly.

“Keep him as calm as possible until I can get there,” Emerson ordered, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Ending the call, he left as fast as possible with a flimsy reason to excuse himself from the current investigation. He wasn’t needed that much anyway. It was a mugging, simple in regards to what type of crime it was, and Kent was sure that someone else on the team could go door to door to try and get a useable description. Besides, his son needed him.

As soon as he exited the station, he dialled the number and asked that Angie put him on the phone with his son.

 

*

 

Joe glanced up from his desk and stared at the team through the glass door. The mugging incident had taken up most of the day with finding the one responsible for the attack, who had been hiding out in his friend’s flat only three blocks from the scene of the crime. After that, there was processing and paperwork. He, himself, was only half way through his report, and even though he knew it needed to be finished and he wanted nothing more than to get it out of the way, he couldn’t bring himself to move forward.

Neither, it seemed could everyone else.

Miles on the desk closest to him, muttering something into the phone line. It could have been anyone but judging from the fond smile on his face, Chandler would have to guess it was Judy. Any other time, he might have scolded Miles for a personal call during shift time but it was late and nothing had happened and it felt wrong to intrude. McCormack and Sanders, sitting on the other side of the room from each other, were laughing and joking boisterously and throwing what seemed to be rolled up bits of paper at each other. One hit Miles on the back of the head and the man turned around to tell them to “pack it in”. They reigned guilt and laughed out a “sorry Skip” and then went back their game, although they seemed much more controlled this time round. One of their projectiles bounced off Kent’s desk and Chandler frowned at the empty space.

He knew that they’d only officially been a team for a few months at this point, and he could honestly say that, of all the things he had learnt, few of them were about Kent, but he had never seemed like the type to leave work early or miss his shift. In fact, Chandler had been impressed with how punctual the DC had been, and he knew that although Kent left before he did, he always stayed the latest.

Clearly, it must have been an emergency. Joe hadn’t missed the flash of concern that crossed his expression before he had stood up to take the call. And then there was the high pitch of his voice, something about bleeding, that had drawn attention his way.

Joe wondered who it could have been about - his mother, his father, siblings - did he have any siblings? Or maybe a friend, a girlfriend, boyfriend? He shook his head to distract himself from the fact that he knew less than he thought about his DC. He ducked his head and put pen back to paper. He could always ask tomorrow.

 

*

 

When Emerson arrived at the children’s ward, he was panting, out of breath, and a little disheveled. Sitting in his car - a beaten up, second hand ford - and trying not to run every single red light and break every single traffic law he could, was difficult, especially when he could hear Michael’s voice on the other end of the line, quiet and saddened with the occasional sniffing between each word. His son wasn’t much of a cryer, not since he had learnt to speak in almost fully formed sentences and the sound of it just made his chest tighten and his stomach drop because it meant that something was wrong. So when he had finally reached the hospital, he didn’t waste time on walking or keeping composure.

Angie met him at the door to the children’s ward, standing up from the chair in the waiting room when she saw him, and the first thing she did was apologise. Kent rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed comfortingly - she needed to know that he wasn’t angry - and followed her quickly to his son’s room.

A doctor was talking in a low voice when Kent entered, crouched down so he was at Michael’s level. The three year old was perched on the edge of the bed, looking suitably subdued, a red gash on the left side of his forehead, and didn’t seem to be responding to the doctor’s words, but when the door opened, he looked up and a grin broke out across his face.

“Daddy,” he cried and his arms reached out.

Emerson couldn’t describe how he felt before, but he could say that now, when the boy was comfortably placed against his side, with his little arms gripping onto his father’s suit and his head pressed to his chest, he felt relieved. Lighter, even.

“You must be Mr Kent,” the doctor greeted as he straightened up and held out his hand, “I’m Dr Saheb.”

Kent shifted his hold onto one arm and reached out to shake his hand, “Is he going to be okay?”

“Well, there’s no lasting damage if that’s what you mean. It was a bit of a nasty fall with a lot of blood - but it’s common with most head injuries to look worse than some of them are. It wasn’t too deep but we stitched him up and he should be right as rain in a few days,” Saheb assured with a small smile, “Your son is a trooper.”

Kent shot him a wry smile and pressed a kiss to Michael’s forehead.

“I would however suggest investing in a more complicated safety system,” he continued, with a joke tone.

“Oh you have no idea,” Emerson agreed. He glanced down at Michael and held him a little closer. “You gave me a scare there Mickey.”

“Sorry daddy,” was his son’s murmured reply, and Kent pressed his lips to his forehead again. Michael held onto him a little tighter.

 

*

 

Kent didn’t show up the next morning. Chandler came in at seven, the same time that he was did, and began to sort out files and clean desks. It was only when it reached eight, and Miles came through the door, grunting his good mornings, that he realised that Kent hadn’t shown up the time that he usually does.

“Have you heard from Kent at all?” Chandler questioned his DS from where he was standing uncertainly at the doorway to his office.

The older man, who was sitting at his desk, looked up from where he was staring into the contents of his coffee mug. “Got a call this morning, about half past. Family emergency or something.”

Chandler frowned. “Did he say when he would be back?”

“Not in so many words, no,” Miles responded. He paused, eyed the DI for a moment and then smirked a little, “You worried about the kid?”

“Of course not,” Joe denied automatically and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. He knew it wasn’t entirely true - he was worried, but that was because of the lack of routine to it. It wasn’t like Kent to take personal calls during shifts, or to miss work, that’s all. Nothing else. “It’s just...not like him. I was wondering whether something was wrong.”

Miles didn’t look entirely convinced - what he was convinced of however was unknown to Chandler - but he did look away and take another gulp of his drink. “You know Kent, he keeps things to himself. He’s not one for sharing personal information willy nilly. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“But if he keeps things to himself, then surely he’d never tell us if they weren’t fine?” Joe pointed out, the words slipping out as a thought more than a voluntary action.

“If you’re so concerned, then why don’t you drop by and find out for yourself?” Miles told him with an arched eyebrow. Chandler had a feeling that the man was trying to tell him something but for the life of him, he couldn’t quite figure out what.

He stood up a little straighter and adjusted his tie. “I wouldn’t - a home visit, it’s...” he trailed off because he couldn’t quite figure out how to articulate how much he would prefer not to do that. Maybe it was the idea of breaking his routine, the spontaneous nature of the action. Maybe it was because he didn’t actually feel like he had to right to just turn up at Kent’s home - the home he would have to find on his records, since it hadn’t been told to him - or to nose in on something that was clearly a private matter.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to figure out an appropriate response since McCormack came into the Incident room only a few moments after. Unfortunately, Miles’ suggestion circled around his mind, forcing him to wonder why exactly it wasn’t a good idea.

Kent wouldn’t mind, he was sure, he didn’t seem the type to be put out, maybe surprised but not unwelcoming - unless it was the wrong time. If something bad had happened and your boss shows up on your doorstep, it wasn’t likely to make the situation any better.

It would be an invasion of privacy anyway, to go through his records and find out where he lived - but Kent had done the same thing to him, had he not? When his car had broken down a few weeks back, it was Kent who had come to his rescue. It was only when he had been brought home again that night that he realised he’d never actually explicitly said where he lived.

That doesn’t mean I have to do the same thing.

Or it means he was welcoming me to it.

Chandler really hated being indecisive.

At lunch time, he checked, reading over the letters and numbers, noting that, yes, he knew that street, before guilt washed over him and he quickly closed the file. He didn’t need to know because he wasn’t going to do anything with it.

At least, that’s what he told himself, until he found himself leaving less than an hour after the shift usually ends, unusual for him and his habit to stay and work late into the night. Chandler blinked at the clock on the dash of his Land Rover, and wondered, once again, whether it would be just a bad thing?

When the turn off approached him on his right, he came to quick second decision: he turned.

 

*

 

The thing with Michael was that, as soon as something was wrong, like he was sad or sick or injured, he gripped on like a monkey to a tree. When he had caught the flu, Kent had spent nearly two weeks with him attached to his chest at every waking moment - Michael got a bit fussy about not being able to stay in bed with his daddy but they had a deal, one night a week and three when he’s sick, no more and no less.

The only difference was that time, he’d been able to convince Michael to let him go for a couple of hours for work and then come back to resume the process.

This time, no such luck.

When he’d tried to get Michael ready that morning, the boy had huffed and frowned and pouted and screamed and nothing seemed to be able to convince him out of it. So Kent had sighed and accept the fact that, for today at least, he would be spending it at home with his son, and then proceeded to call Angie and Miles.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t like spending the day with Michael. It didn’t happen as often as he would like, and any moments he can spend with his baby boy was always cherished. It was nice, relaxing in contrast to the precinct and Emerson had always thought it was strange that his three year old was better behaved than most of the people he worked with.

Cbeebies played quietly in the background as Michael drew in his colouring book. He had spread himself, body and toys and pens and pencils, across the living room earlier that morning, making a mess in the way that only a toddler could, and had been quite happy and content to sit there, doing what he was doing, as long as Kent didn’t try and leave the room. Then he would make sad noises and grabby hands. It was a good thing that Emerson had grown used to maneuvering around with a baby under his arm or things like using the bathroom and making lunch would have ended disastrously.

“Daddy, look!” Michael called to him and Kent snapped out his thoughts to look down at the boy who had scrambled up onto his feet and was pointing wildly at the television screen. Kent’s eyes danced across the brightly coloured costumes and smiled a little. Yup, his son was a Tweenies fan. Kent smiled and nodded encouragingly and Michael beamed, before turning around and dancing - well, it was more like jumping and shaking - to the beat of the music, singing along in garbled baby speech that only made Kent smile a little more.

The rendition was broken by the ringing of the doorbell. Kent frowned a little and glanced over his shoulder. From where he was sitting, he could peer down the hallway and see the front door, and the silhouette of the figure that stood behind it. He hadn’t been expecting anyone.

He stood up and Michael took a step towards him, arms in the air. Kent rolled his eyes but obliged to the boy’s wishes, settling him on his hip before moving towards the front door.

There was a soft noise of surprise, a few moments before Kent fully comprehended who was at the door. Honestly, he was almost surprised it took him that long to figure it out - with a suit like that, expensive and tailored to perfection, who else was it going to be?

“Sir?” Kent blurted out and subconsciously held onto his son a little tighter.

“Kent,” Chandler greeted airly, his eyes darting between Michael’s face and Kent’s, and realisation seemed to dance behind them. It made Kent swallow guilty and his fingers flex on the door.

“W-what are you doing here sir?” he tried again, clearing his throat.

“Oh, um, I just wanted to see whether you were alright...” he stopped, “When you didn’t come into today...” he trailed off again, “But I can see why now.”

“Um, yeah,” Emerson ducked his head. This was awkward, so awkward, and honestly, he didn’t know what to do. Slam the door in his face and run was always a good opinion, but it wasn’t very professional or polite and well, Kent wasn’t sure whether he could do that to Chandler. Not really anyway. He took a small step back, enough to open the door a little wider. “Do you...want to come in?”

Chandler hesitated.

“We could talk,” Kent offered uncertainly.

Although the detective inspector didn’t seem all that convinced, he did smile - however weak it was - and step into the building so Kent took that as a good a sign as any. Kent smiled in what he hoped was a comforting way and then turned stiffly to walk into the rest of the house. He lead Chandler into the living room, noticed the mess and inwardly cursed. He glanced over his shoulder at the man, who stood in the doorway with a certain air of discomfort around him.

“Sorry,” he apologised, “When you have a kid in the house, sometimes things get out of hand.” He paused, “I can clean up, if...”

Chandler shook his head in negative. “No, no, there’s no need. I’m fine.”

Emerson wasn’t sure whether the man was lying or not, but he appreciated it all the same. He lowered Michael to the ground carefully, running a hand through his hair. The Tweenies had moved onto their next song, just in time, and Michael grinned and babbled happily.

“Please, sit,” Kent gestured to the sofa and sat down on one end. He kept his eyes on Chandler, watching the way the man carefully maneuvered the room, making sure not to step on anything, before placing himself carefully on the end of the sofa. His hands locked in his lap.

There was silence between them for a long moment, Emerson clueless of what to say and he hoped that Chandler’s silence was for the same reason. He could imagine it was a bit of a surprise to the man, that he’d never mentioned having a child - hell, it would probably surprise him to know that any of his colleagues had children that weren’t gushed about every moment they could. So he patiently waited.

“So, um,” Chandler cleared his throat, “Is he...yours?”

Kent’s eyes drifted to his son. The thing was, Michael didn’t look much like him. He had inherited his mother’s light brown hair, and her hazel brown eyes. The only contributions he had played in his son’s looks was his cheeks - chubby at the moment, like his had been as a child - and the mass of curls that made up the hair on the top of his head. “Yeah, Michael’s my son,” he told him lowly.

“Just you’ve, ah, never mentioned him to me before.”

He shrugged a little. “I’ve never mentioned him to anyone at work before.”

“Why not?”

Kent pondered for a moment. Why? He knew why - or at least, he had known. Now, the reason didn’t seem quite good enough, not when he had to explain it to someone else, not when he had to explain it to Joe. “It’s just...kind of what happened. I was just promoted when Mickey was born and I don’t know, I guessed I didn’t want any kind of special treatment.”

“DS Miles has children,” Chandler reminded.

“But they have Judy. Michael...he only has me,” Kent told him carefully.

“No mother in the picture then?”

“She didn’t want to be,” he could feel Chandler’s sympathetic look burning against his shoulder and he looked up and smiled reassuringly, “It’s no big deal, really. It wasn’t the best time for either of us to be parents, to be honest, and she made the decision to walk away when I didn’t. She had every right to.”

“Of course,” Chandler quickly responded, something in his voice that seemed maybe panicked, desperately reassuring.

Kent squinted his eyes at the DI curiously. “So...why are you here?”

Was Chandler flustered? “I was...concerned by your sudden departure, and then when you didn’t arrive at work this morning, I thought something bad may have happened. Miles said that you had a family emergency.”

“Not a lie, more like the stretching of the truth,” Kent told him with a quick smile. “Michael fell yesterday at the nanny’s house, and had to get stitched up, so I had to go and see him. And then today, the little monkey won’t let me out of his sight. I felt it was easier to take advantage of a few of the leave days I have banked.”

“Is he okay now?” Chandler questioned, his eyes darting between father and son.

“He seems to be,” Kent replied, and tried not to be too touched by the concern Chandler was showing him and his son. It was professional concern.  Concern for your underlings and their offspring. That was all. He glanced at his son. “Mickey, come here a minute.”

Michael glanced away from the television screen and toddled a little closer. “Daddy?” he questioned, tilting his head and resting his hand on his father’s knees.

Emerson leant in close. “Mickey, this is my friend and my boss, DI Joe Chandler. Sir, this is Michael.”

Mickey pressed into his father’s legs and smiled shyly. “Hi.” he waved with one hand.

Chandler smiled widely. “Hello,” he responded, ever so polite, “Do you know what a DI is Michael?”

“It’s a police officer,” he answered proudly, “Like Daddy. You make the bad men go away.”

“I’m impressed. And how old are you?”

Michael glanced down at the fingers on his left hand, the corners of his lips turned down in thought before he held up three.

“Three, wow,” Chandler nodded with an exaggerated amount of consideration. He glanced at Kent and his smile became just like little bit more real. “He’s smart.”

“He’s my little genius, aren’t you Mickey?” Emerson grinned and dropped a kiss to his temple.

It felt strange, to do that with Chandler watching him. So long he’d been keeping this a secret, it seemed nice to just let go and actually show off how amazing his child was, just like all the other parents. Normalcy. Now that was a strange thought.

“Can I draw a picture now?” Michael questioned.

“Of course,” Kent agreed automatically, “What are you going to draw now?”

“Daddy and DI Jo-owe Chan-dar fighting the bad guys,” he announced gleefully and moved as fast as his little legs would carry him back to the center of the room. He crashed onto his knees a little too harshly, making Chandler jump and Kent call out for him to be more careful. He paid it no mind though and pushed the used papers aside to find a few one. His hand went to the pile of crayons, which he decimated in search for the right colours, which in this circumstance turned out to be greens and pinks and purples and blues.

Surprisingly, it was then that he stood up again and, armed as he was, approached the sofa. He climbed onto the sofa, pushing himself up, head first, and crumpling the paper a little as he went, and positioned himself between Kent and Chandler, his back towards his father. The crayons were then dumped onto Chandler’s lap, who jolted a little but didn’t try and get away, which seemed like a good sign. Michael looked up and grinned toothily at Chandler before reaching for one colour, green, and putting it to the paper he pressed to the man’s thigh.

Kent blinked and glanced at Chandler out of the corner of his eyes. He seemed startled and confused, unsure of what to do next, but his eyes were on Michael, on his drawing, and god, it shouldn’t be that endearing to see them together like that.

Finally, the DC said, “Do you want...tea? I have some of that green stuff that you like from the office.”

“You have green tea?” Chandler sounded surprised and his back uncurved.

“I thought I’d try it and well, it’s not for me. Shouldn’t let it go to waste,” Kent pointed out.

The DI’s expression melted into something torn. It made Kent’s shoulders slump a little, that the relaxation that seemed to have taken over the usually tense man was wiped away with just one question. “I don’t know whether I should stay...”

Emerson gestured towards his son. “Personally, I don’t think he’s going to let you leave any time soon. And if you have nowhere to be, then you could at least enjoy a drink.”

Chandler smiled a little, the edges wavering. “There’s nowhere else,” he muttered back, which Kent took as a yes.

It was only when he was in the kitchen, and the kettle had whistled and clicked to announce the boiling water, that he realised that for the first time that day, Michael hadn’t followed him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is focusing around season 2 so it's a lot more depressing, but the next chapter will have realisation of feelings which should be a lot more fun :P

 

As strange as it sounded, Chandler felt it strange to wake up in his own bed for once. It had seemed like months since the last time, when really it had only been a few days, a week at the most.

The only gentle lull of domestics and break ins had given up to the colossal tide of murders and gang related violence. And with the incident room having work done, there was just too much chaos to deal with at one time, not to mention the fact that for a time of it, with Sanders’ transfer, they were one man down. It was only yesterday that another member had joined the team, DC Finley Mansell. Then all at once, things seemed to calm down. A gap in the crimes, the builders taking the day off, a calm.

Chandler had sent everyone home early the day before. After a 36 hour shift, with a few hour breaks here and there, he felt the knackered bunch deserved it. Everyone had returned to their families and Chandler, he had returned to the flat he rented. Sleeping, as he expected, had come easy that night, and with no call waking him up to tell him that another body had been discovered, it was the first proper night sleep he’d had all week.

He shuffled across his floor, his slippers scuffing and squeaking when the wood meet the rubber soles, and yawned loudly and freely. He absentmindedly clicked the coffee maker on, the first thing he did every morning, before approaching his fridge. Normally, he wouldn’t think twice about opening it and reaching for the milk on the bottom shelf, but today, he paused.

In the neatness and stillness of his home, the child’s drawing stood out against the silver backdrop. The paper was crumbled and one of the edges had curved upwards, but it did nothing to destroy the artwork in the center. Crudely drawn, the yellow haired figure in a turquoise suit was chasing after a figure in a black and red striped shirt.  Behind him was a messy of dark hair in a green suit and whose legs were longer and stretched more than was humanly possible. It was strange that, even with all the impossibilities and type child like interpretation of faces and forms, it still looked like Chandler and Kent.

When he had made to leave all those weeks ago, Michael had stopped him as he made to leave with a tight grip on his trouser legs, creasing the fabric and adding to the plethora of crayon marks that Chandler wasn’t entirely sure would ever get out.

He shoved the paper towards him. “It’s for you,” he stated.

Chandler could have done anything with it, but for some reason, it felt like a disrespect to have to anywhere but on the highest place of honour, as his mother would say. When he was younger, it was known that everything he made would be put on the fridge with words of praise to go along with it. Making the fridge was something of the utmost importance for him and he’d always thought, if he ever had children of his own, that he would do the same. That they’d have something to aspire to and get the praise that they deserve, and while life brought different plans, the want was still there and it returned every time he laid eyes on the image.

The same thing had happened when Kent had brought Michael to the station the next morning. Honestly, Chandler had been surprised. Although he hadn’t fully understood the man’s want to keep his son a secret from them, he did accept the idea behind it and the father’s decision, and he’d never expected Kent to be so sudden about it.

“Here lad, where’d you get the babe from?” McCormack had called from across the room.

“I didn’t nick him if that’s what you mean,” Kent quipped back and adjusted his grip on the toddler, who was peering curiously around the room from the safety of his parent’s arms.

“He a cousin or something?” Sanders questioned and he leant in close and grinned, “Hey little guy.”

“His name’s Michael,” Kent informed them. His eyes flittered over the heads of the team, to Chandler, where he was standing by the doors to his office. Chandler saw the flash of worry in his gaze and sent him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Even if it wasn’t, Kent seemed to take it as such because he looked away and said, “He’s my son.”

“Blimey, when did that happen?” Miles blinked startled by the unexpected news. Then he frowned, “Why didn’t you tell us before?”

“Does it matter? I’m telling you know,” Kent responded evasively. He turned his attention to the child, “Mickey, these are the men that work with me - DC McCormack, DC Sanders and DS Miles. Say hi.”

“Hi Ma-Core-mack, Sanders and Miles,” Michael responded dutifully.

It was safe to say that the men were smitten, and the three year old preened under the attention. And then the men got a good laugh when Michael caught sight of Chandler on the other side of the room and brightened with an excited cry of “Jo-owe!” to bring the man closer. He’d never had a child hang off his neck before, and Kent had apologised profusely once Angie had picked Michael up and departed with some long goodbyes, but Chandler had brushed it away. It was honestly a lot nicer than he had expected.

The coffee maker beeped and Chandler snapped out of his thoughts, and finally opened the fridge. He felt considerably happier at the memory than he had expected.

Chandler continued his morning routine like he always did. Coffee, toast, wash up, bathroom, clothes, shoes, out the door. He couldn’t be certain what the day would bring, but he hoped it would be a breakthrough, an explanation.

But that wasn’t what he got.

If he had any idea what would happen by the end of the day, he wouldn’t have sent Kent out there alone. He felt as if he should have known, but how could he?

How could anyone have possibly known what was going to happen?

 

*

 

Searing pain gave way into agonizing numbness. His head felt heavy and his back ached and for a long while, Kent couldn’t quite figure out where he was. And then the muffling in his ears popped and the beeping of machines and the squeaking of trolleys seemed to crescendo around him and suddenly, he knew.

Kent clenched his eyes shut, pressing his face into the pillow, and breathed out shakily, almost as if believing that if he kept his eyes closed for long enough, it can be like it never happened. That if he couldn’t see it, he could block out reality because it was too horrific to bear.

He had been _striped_.

He could remember the event, the pain and the mocking laughter and the insults, somewhere in the back of his mind where it appeared in quick flashes between the shadows. And then someone had found him, a man, muttering out panicked curses as he fumbled with his phone and called an ambulance. And then he’d been rushed into surgery, Kent remembered that. He remembered seeing Chandler too and Miles, standing there looking angered and as if, for the first time, they were at a loss of what to do. Not that Emerson had entirely taken notice of that fact. No, he was too busy being _ashamed_.

Beyond his eyelids, Kent heard the curtain around him being opened. “Oh, still not awake?” he recognised Angie’s voice, laced with concern, and that only meant one thing - Michael was here.

“Not yet,” Chandler surprisingly replied, his voice a low hush, “The doctor’s said that the anesthesia should wear off soon though.”

“The poor dear, our Emerson has been through far too much today,” Angie sighed.

“Yes, he has,” Chandler responded in agreement.

Kent tried not to let his heart lurch at the acknowledgment of the possessive. Our Emerson. Chandler’s Emerson. Joe’s Emerson. He hated himself for the pleasure that gave him, but given the circumstances, Kent felt he was allowed to give himself a little hope, even if it’s impossible.

Footsteps moved closer. “How long has the babe being sleeping?” she questioned.

“Oh, um, about an hour now,” Chandler answered lowly, and fabric rustled. “Did you sort out everything you needed to?”

“Yes Mr Chandler, but unfortunately, I have to rush out,” Angie sounded apologetic.

“What about Michael?”

“You wouldn’t be able to watch him, could you? Just until Emerson wakes up. He can let you know what he wants to do with the boy. If I could stay I would, but it’s my daughter you see, she’s just given birth and it was complicated and-”

“Say no more. Go. I think I can handle the sleeping baby for a while,” Chandler assured, and Kent tried not to smile at the forced confidence in his voice. Not that anyone else would notice. Just Kent. He had spent an embarrassing amount of time watching the DI to know this. Besides, he was pretty sure that Chandler had never taken care of a child by himself before, but it was kind of sweet that he was willing to try.

He heard Angie say her praises and leave her love, before she exited. Kent remained still for a few moments, debating whether he should continue to feign slumber or open his eyes, when the urge to see Michael, to see Chandler, became a little too much and he blinked them open.

Michael was fast asleep, curled into a little ball, his legs pressed to his chest and his face pressed half into Chandler’s shoulder. Kent could hear the sharp little intakes of breaths and the chokes that made up his snores. Chandler was holding him tightly, as if he were afraid that if he let go, the child would drop and disappear. He was still immaculately dressed in his tailored suit, but he seemed a little in disarray from his normal self - although maybe that had something to do with the way his hair was slightly out of place. Chandler’s hair was never out of place.

He glanced up with Kent moved and smiled softly, the relief uncontained in his eyes. “Kent.”

“Sir,” Emerson croaked out in reply, “What time is it?”

“Seven in the evening,” Chandler answered.

“Isn’t the shift still on?” he wondered.

“Technically, yes. I’m waiting on a call and I thought that I’d drop by, and then Angie was here with Michael and...” he paused and trailed off a little flustered, “I hope you don’t mind.”

Emerson shook his head. “I don’t.” I never would.

Chandler smiled a little more. Michael turned in his arms, making a low noise of objection. His face turned towards Kent now, and one arm was hanging limply over the box that Chandler had made out of his own. One leg kicked out of its confinements and slumped in freedom. It was probably a sign to how long Michael had been asleep, and how often he had moved, that Chandler didn’t look startled or phased by the movement. He simply adjusted his grip and settled comfortably in the chair.

“How are you?” he asked lowly. Emerson didn’t miss the way that his eyes flickered from his backside to his face. It was just a brief flicker but it was there and the warm feeling was washed away by a cold wind.

Kent ducked his head. “I’m fine,” he responded monotone.

“No you’re not,” Chandler rebuffed, entirely convinced and Emerson glanced at him confused. “How could you be?” He paused, “Do they...?”

“The drugs the doctor’s have given me are keeping it numb,” Kent replied, and tried to smile a little, “I should be fine for a while at least.”

“Good, you should try and make yourself as comfortable as possible,” Chandler nodded with agreement, his expression sort of distance as if he were thinking about something and it bothered him greatly. Emerson couldn’t help but wonder what it is, although he would never ask to find out.

“So, um, why did Angie leave?” he questioned instead.

“Oh, a, um, emergency with her grandchild, I believe,” Chandler explained, “I told her it was okay to go...”

“That’s fine, she should be with her family,” Emerson told him with reassuring confidence, “It where I would want to be. She does enough for me anyway with the long hours, she deserves some time for her own family.” he paused and frowned a little, “I guess this means I’m going to have to call my parents...”

“Already done,” Chandler told him and Kent jerked, blinking, and tried to ignore the flare of pain at the sudden movement. The DI looked embarrassed as he spoke, “Well, after the call from the hospital, I thought it was best to let them know. They’re your parents and I was guessing you would need the help.”

“Yeah, I can hardly look after Michael in this state can I?” Emerson tried to make light of it, but it came out bitter and frustrated, so he let his smile fall and dropped his head into the pillow once more, “When will they be here?”

“By morning,” Chandler replied quietly.

“So I’m going to have to get someone to watch him for the night,” Emerson sighed and closed his eyes and thought. Erica lived on the other side of London and she worked late and long hours, so I doubted she’d have the time to watch Michael. He may not have much of a choice though. “There’s Meg in white collar, I suppose, or...” his eyes slid to Chandler, “w-would you?”

“Would I what?”

Kent’s cheeks flushed a little. “Would you be able to keep an eye on Michael tonight?”

Chandler stammered, his eyes wide with what looked like panic. “I, Kent, I don’t think that’s the best idea...”

“Please? There’s no one on such short notice and I can’t have Michael spend the night here with me at the hospital, it’s not fair on him, and I...I trust you sir,” he lowered his gaze once more.

“I...I don’t have suitable entertainment at my apartment,” Chandler finally said, his voice resigned and accepting.

Emerson smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Mickey is very good at keeping himself happy. Just put on the television to some kind of kids show and he’ll sit happily with you.”

Chandler arched an eyebrow disbelieving. “Is it really that easy?”

“It should be, he likes you,” Kent told him, “Thank you, really, I appreciate it. I...”

“I owe you this at least,” Chandler smiled tightly.

“Owe me?” Kent sounded confused. Chandler’s eyes flickered once more between his face and the bandages. His expression hardened. “No.” The DI looked startled. “No, this is not your fault.”

“If I hadn’t have sent you out there-”

“I was the target,” Kent told him firmly.  His breath shook a little as he swallowed and pushed through it, “T-there was two of them, and one of them said that I should w-watch what I say. It was always going to be me. If you hadn’t have sent me out there, they would have gotten me anyway.”

“You don’t know that,” Chandler responded firmly.

“And neither do you,” Emerson shot back. “I don’t blame you. I don’t, and you shouldn’t blame yourself. Just...find the bastards who did this, okay?”

“We’ll find them,” the DI corrected, nodding in support. Kent couldn’t be sure how much of the words the man believed, but he smiled and glanced back to Michael, and it didn’t seem like now was the time to question his issues of self blame.

So Kent stayed quiet, watching the two, his DI and his son, together on the chair over the curve of the pillow; wished that nothing like what had happened to him would ever happen to them and waiting for the pain to rise once more.

 

*

 

Slasher had died. He was dead before they’d even got there and Chandler and Miles had sat there for nearly an hour, before Buchan had called them. Finding the body, although saddening him, really just added to the frustration of these gang related killings and the need to find out who was doing this grew.

But tonight, there wasn’t much else they could do. It was dark, it was late, and Chandler was to play babysitter for the night. Michael had stayed with Kent in the hospital room when Chandler had gotten the call. The kid had been asleep and had barely made a noise of discomfort when he was shifted and placed onto the bed at his father’s side. Now, when Chandler returned, Michael was awake, eyes wide yet red around the edges, with his little hand resting carefully on his dad’s back, and it was Emerson who was asleep, his face mashed into the pillow and his mouth agape as he snored. Chandler smiled a little, like father like son.

“Jo-owe,” Michael called out, his voice a stage whisper, “Daddy is sleeping.”

“Yes he is,” Joe nodded and approached the bed slowly. He crouched down at Michael’s side and rested a hand on his back.

“Daddy’s hurt,” the boy spoke again, his voice saddened.

“Yeah, I know, but your daddy will be fine, I promise. He’s just going to need to spend the night here and take it easy for a few days. You’ll be extra good for daddy won’t you?”

Michael had a noise of agreement and his hand gently stroked his father’s back.

“I knew you would be,” Chandler smiled, “And tonight, you’ll spend the night at my home. Will that be okay?”

“Spend night with Jo-owe and then come and see daddy in the morning,” Michael stated, his eyebrows furrowing together.

“See daddy tomorrow,” Chandler repeated in agreement.

It was late when he got back to his apartment and Michael was dozing off in the car seat that Angie had left in the back of the back. Through the rear view mirror, Joe watched as the boy jolted himself awake with the sudden kicking of legs, a determined look on his face that looked so much like his father.  Too much like him. But it was late, obviously over the boy’s usually bedtime curfew, and it was clear that the boy wouldn’t last much longer.

He changed Michael into the night clothes that were in the baby bag, which was a lot harder than he expected with the lax child but a blessing in comparison to putting on a nappy. He set Michael down on one side of his bed and carefully arranged the pillows around him to stop him from rolling out. Michael yawned up at him when Chandler tucked the duvet around his shoulders, his side, and the DI smiled, pushing his hair out of his face when it fell into his eyes.

“Sleep well,” he muttered and made to leave - he was tired, so tired, and he still had to set up the sofa for him to sleep there. He didn’t particularly like the idea, it kind of made him uncomfortable, but not enough to stop him retiring there - when a little hand grasped around the edge of the sleeve of his shirt.

“Stay with me,” Michael muttered tiredly, his eyes closing and then being focused back open to pierce the man with a dazed glare.

“Michael, I’m not sure-” Chandler started uncertainly. It didn’t feel appropriate, to share the bed with the child, even if it was his bed.

“You have to stay ‘nd keep the bad guys away,” Michael insisted, his voice pleading and a little afraid.

The bad guys. Chandler knew that children were scared of things, he remembered being scared himself. He remembered the choking feeling and how everything in his room made him jump, and that sleeping with a nightlight was the only way he felt safe and controlled in his own room, when he could see everything. He also remembered that sharing a bed with his parents, even if his father hadn’t been one hundred percentage okay with the new addition to their bed, had made him feel as if nothing could touch him, not if they were there to protect him. And Michael, poor Michael, had just spent half of the day knowing that his father had been injured badly by unknown bad guys. Of course those fears would be multiplied, and right now, he didn’t have his dad to comfort him. He only had Chandler.

It still didn’t feel right, it made him a little uneasy and he wondered what Kent would think, but with Michael looking up at him like that, with tired hope and worry, Joe didn’t feel as if he could refuse. So instead, he sighed and nodded, and told the boy that he needed to change and that he would be back.

He had half hoped that Michael would asleep when he come out from the bathroom, clad in a plain grey t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms, but no. The boy was stubborn, even though he was struggling to stay awake. He watched Chandler cross the room and then climb under the covers of his own bed. Chandler sighed, closing his eyes briefly and relaxing into the softness of his mattress, the tension leaving his body. Eyes were still on him and he opened them and turned his head and Michael watched him.

He smiled softly. “Go to sleep Michael. Nothing is going to happen.”

With those words, it was almost as if Michael felt it was safe to close his eyes and given in, and a few minutes later, Joe did the same.

 

*

 

The day after the accident, as his mother had taken it calling it, he’d been released from hospital. Without the steady stream of morphine, the pain was an annoying ache that never seemed to let up and if he moved too quickly or too sharply, the edges of the wounds would pull and it just got worse. They’d given him crutches, something he had hated when he was sixteen and had broken his foot and that he still hated now, but after some experimenting, it was very clear he wasn’t able to walk properly without them. Chandler had taken him home, with Michael in the backseat, since apparently his son was very persistent about getting to the hospital to see him.

“He woke me up by jumping on my chest this morning,” Chandler told him with a slight pull to his lips.

Kent felt aghast. “Michael,” he chided.

The boy looked up at him innocently.

“It was fine,” Chandler quickly assured, “I can understand and truth be told, I wanted to see how you were doing.” Kent had blinked at him, trying to ignore the slight thudding in his chest, “You are aware that you probably won’t be able to return to work for a while, and until this case is solved, I won’t have much time to call round. At least this way I know you’re on the mend.”

“It’s...nice of you to care sir,” Emerson swallowed and smiled.

“You’re my DC, of course I care,” Chandler shot him a grin and looked away as Kent’s smile faltered with disappointment.

He didn’t have much time to dwell on that feeling though, because when they’d pulled up to his home, his parents were already outside the door, waiting for him. His mother had pulled him into a hug, tight and constricting as all embraces from worried mothers seemed to be, and she gushed about how worried she was and whether he was okay and that she’d be around to help him get better, until he was back on his own two feet.

“Don’t smother the boy Sharon,” his father told his wife.

“I’m not something him Harry,” Sharon rolled her eyes fondly and rubbed at her son’s cheeks.

His father remained typically standoffish, as he always was whenever emotions would get the better of him and seeing one of your children hurt applied to that, but Kent did not the amount of attention he paid Chandler when the man climbed out of the car and moved to the back to get Michael out of the car. The boy was comfortably settled in the man’s arms and only bounced excitedly at the sight of his grandparents, his grin bright and wide, contrasting the polite one that Chandler was using.

“Oh, and my little grandbaby,” his mother cooed. She moved towards them, leaving Kent to try and regain his balance, and patted her grandson’s cheek. Her eyes flittered to Chandler, “And who are you?”

“Oh, I’m DI Joseph Chandler,” the DI jumped a little and adjust his grip on Michael to hold out his hand.

“You’re the man who called us,” she commented and accepted the hand warmly.

“Well, I know that Kent would need help during this time and you are his emergency contact at work so it only seemed right,” Chandler explained.

“Well, aren’t you sweet,” Sharon mused with a wide grin and Kent didn’t need to see her face to know what she was thinking.

“You should get back to the office,” Emerson pointed out quickly, and smiled awkwardly when eyes turned to him. If it was possible to shift from one foot to the other, he would have. “I don’t want to keep you any longer.”

“It’s not a bother, but yes, I suppose you're right,” Chandler agreed hesitantly, “I have, after all, a lot to do.”

“Like finding out who did this to our son,” Harry reminded him gruffly.

“Dad,” Kent complained.

“Yes, like that Mr Kent,” Joe answered, his voice a little lighter, as he stared down the man, “But I’ll help Emerson with his things before hand.”

“No need, we’ve got it,” his father said again, already stepping forward to pop the boot of the car and reach in to grab his bags. Kent frowned heavily and when Chandler glanced uncertainly towards him, he shot him an apologetic smile.

“And now to grandma you go Michael,” Joe told him softly, handing the boy over to Kent’s mother, who told her grandson happily.

Michael gripped one hand onto the fabric of her blouse and turned to face Chandler, his eyes wide and imploring. “Are you going to fight the bad guys now?”

“Yes, I’m going to fight the bad guys,” Joe nodded.

Michael seemed pleased and nodded back. He waved with one hand. “Bye Jo-owe.”

Chandler smiled fondly. “See you later Michael.” He straightened up and turned towards Emerson, “Rest, if we find anything, we’ll let you know.” He waited for Kent’s mutter of “yes sir” before turning to face his parents, “Glad to meet you Mr and Mrs Kent. Sorry it had to be under these circumstances.”

“Us too,” Sharon murmured back.

Emerson should have known that was when things would get bad. Between all the babying and the refusal to let him do anything, and the controlling of his diet (yes, chicken soup was supposed to have you feel better, but if he had another bowl of it, he was going to be chicken soup), neither his mum or his dad seemed able to stop themselves from asking.

“So, you and DI Chandler...” Sharon had started one day when they were both in the kitchen, his mother standing over the stove as she made stew for dinner that night.

“He’s my boss, what’s more to know?” Emerson told her.

“Well, it’s just seems that he’s friendly with Michael,” she pointed out, “I’ve never seen someone that wasn’t family act like that around him.”

“It’s just how our team is,” he brushed it aside, “We spend a lot of time together and we become close. I’ve spent a lot of time with my DS’ family as well. I know his kids.”

“But do you make home visits?” she questioned.

“Sometimes,” Emerson lied.

And his father was worse, he wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it.

“It’s just not proper,” Harry complained from where he was sitting in front of the television. The news was on, speaking about a shooting down at the Blind Beggar, and Kent was trying to pay attention. He’d gotten an odd call every now and then, but nothing substantial, and with Michael around him and being as aware as he is, watching the news when it was filled with such horror stories was never a good idea. But his mother had taken the boy out to the park at the end of the street, for some fresh area, so he planned to take advantage. Well, he wanted to anyway.

“Dad, please, just leave it,” Emerson begged.

“He’s your superior,” he continued anyway and Kent sighed and leant back as much as he could into the cushions of the sofa. “He should know better than to take advantage.”

“There is no taking advantage,” Kent insisted, “Even if I...” his words trailed off for a moment, “Even if I wanted there to be, he wouldn’t. He’s a good man and he’s...not like that.”

“He’s close, way to close,” Harry pointed out, his eyes on the television screen, “To you, and to Michael. The poor kids attached to him and it’ll only end in tears, I guarantee it. And then all this stuff with you getting hurt...”

His eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Well, I’m just saying maybe you shouldn’t trust your DI so much. You’ve never been hurt on the job before.”

“I’ve never handled cases like this before,” Kent reminded him, “And I have to trust him. He’s my DI, I have to trust that he’ll do good by the team and by me, and me getting hurt was not his fault. He already blames himself, and you don’t need to add to it. And, so what if Michael likes him? Michael likes Miles too, and Mansel and McCormack. He’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal.”

“Why?”

Finally, Harry turned to look at his son. His expression was hard but his eyes, they were lighter, worried. “Because you’ve never looked at anyone the way you look at him.”

 

*

 

A mole.

There was a mole in the unit.

Chandler didn’t want to think about it. In a case like this, with everything being thrown into doubt every minute of every day, and where the number of people he could trust had dwindled down to something pitifully minuscule, he needed to trust the members of his team because if he couldn’t trust them, who else could he trust?

But there was someone. He knew there was someone. The information that he had been given was one hundred percent true thus far so he had no reason to not trust it. The thing was, he had a horrible feeling that he knew who it was.

DC Emerson Kent.

He could understand, of course. In Kent’s situation, with the attack and with his son, he had every right to. Chandler was sure that, if he were in the same situation, he would have done the same. But that didn’t mean he could ignore it.

He’d tried to be discreet about it, calling Kent into his office. The man sat down carefully, another reminder of what had happened to him, and looked up at Chandler expectantly, almost nervous and expectant. It made Joe feel a little sick to his stomach. God, he had been right.

“Kent, I think perhaps you should go home,” he started off slowly.

“Sir?” Emerson questioned, startled and confused. He wasn’t going to make this easy was he?

Chandler took a small breath, clasped his hands together on the surface of his desk and straightened his back. “Pending an investigation, I think that the best course of action is for you to pack up your things.”

Kent looked confused and hurt. “You...you think I’m the mole...” his voice was faint.

Joe’s expression was grim. “I understand, I do. You have Michael to think about and after what happened...I don’t blame you. You have to protect yourself and your son. I just...I can’t have you here. I’m sorry.”

“But sir, I’m...” Kent stopped and trailed off, his shoulders slumping in defeat, “Okay sir,” he murmured and stood up shakily. To Joe’s eyes, his movements seemed unsteady and a flash of worry went through him, making him wonder whether the man had come off his crutches too early.

“Kent,” Chandler found himself saying, and the DC turned him, wondering. Chandler’s smile strained, “I wish, out of everyone, that it hadn’t been you.”

 

*

 

Emerson tried hard not to take the accusation personally.  Because, it wasn’t.

At least, it didn’t seem to be.

But still, the very idea that Chandler could believe that he would do that seemed to make his stomach tightened uncomfortably. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He had thought that Chandler would know that, even in what seemed like the short amount of time they’d known each other.

Then again, Kent would think, his eyes sliding to Michael who was playing happily on the floor, all childish innocence and naivety about the world, and he would know instantly that he would do anything to protect that boy, anything he could. Maybe, even, becoming a mole.

He never mentioned why he was on leave for those few days. His parents had left on the fourth day so it wasn’t too bad, and Michael just seemed happy to have his father at home with him, although he did try to have the child spend a few days at Angie’s so he wouldn’t get used to spending long days with his father. Kent would, of course, hopefully, he wished, return to work and it was only a few months before Michael would be starting nursery.

Every once and a while, he would wonder about the case, about how far they had gotten into pinning down the Kray twins and stopping them and all those who worked for them, once and for all. At these times, his hand would hover over the phone before he even knew what he was doing, and when he did, he would pull away. He couldn’t ask about the case, he couldn’t even ask how everyone was doing, if someone else had gotten hurt.

Kent had tried that once, a quick call because it had been three days and he was worried and Mansell had said that no one was technically allowed to stay in contact with him, as part of procedure.

Miles sent him one quick text that simply read ‘all is well’ and Kent decided to take that as a good sign, less he drive himself mad.

Chandler had text him too, more frequently than Miles, asking questions about him and Michael and Emerson didn’t know what to do with that. He guessed it was a positive thing, that Chandler was still keeping in contact, and he replied out of need to not be alone, while his pride screamed out to ignore the words after what he had been accused of.

McCormack called once, just the once, and defended him, which made Kent smile to know that someone believed that he wasn’t him, and had agreed when McCormack said that, if there was a mole in the unit, someone would find out the truth and everything would be right.

Kent hadn’t known at the time what that would mean.

It was Miles that gave him the call around noon that day. Kent had been dozing, having dropped Michael off with Angie and having nothing better to do after half an hour of flicking between channels to no avail. He had jerked at the noise and scrambled for his phone. His eyebrows furrowed at the name on the screen.

“Sarg?” he greeted.

“Kent,” the man responded gruffly, “You’re needed.”

Kent sat up a little straighter and hesitated. “Wait, I thought...what about the investigation?”

“Withdrawn, no need for it anymore. We found the mole,” Miles informed him and the man sighed, “It was McCormack. He...hung himself this morning.”

“Shit,” Kent said, because what else could his say? He felt numb, like he did when he was on pain medication. McCormack. No, it couldn’t be. He’d never...but he did. And he had ended his life because of it. Emerson clenched his eyes shut. “Where do you need me?”

“Buchan’s home. You know where it is?”

“I did the background check on the Ripper case,” he informed him, “But why are we going there?”

“Safer place than the station, let me tell you,” Miles muttered back. “Look, just be there around four, alright? Think you can get someone to watch the kid while you’re gone?”

“Y-yeah, yeah, I’ll be there,” Kent agreed absentmindedly, his eyes already darting to the clock that was perched on his mantlepiece.

Time passed slowly, way too slowly, but soon enough, he was in his car and outside Buchan’s house. He stalled for a moment, reluctant to face his team - and perhaps, more specifically, Chandler - before he gathered his resolve. He had nothing to be ashamed of. He had done nothing wrong, and besides, there were bigger things to worry about than crushes and wounded pride.

That didn’t stop him from avoiding Chandler’s gaze though, when he was lead into what looked like a dining room and placed diagonally from him. He kept his eyes firmly on whoever was speaking, and if that speaker just happened to be Chandler, his eyes floating above his head unwaveringly. Kent knew he couldn’t evade the DI. It was an impossibility, even with them currently being in a small house, but it worked, while it lasted - until the initial meeting was over and Chandler stood up, straightened the hem of his jumper, and requested that he have a word with Kent at once.

Eyes turned to him and he froze momentarily. Chandler kept watching and eventually he nodded, and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“I want to apologise,” Chandler said lowly when they were alone, “For a moment there, I didn’t trust anybody and you took the brunt of it. I should have known that you...” he trailed off and looked up at Kent expectantly, but expecting what, Kent wasn’t really sure.

“Well,” he finally said, clearing his throat, “I never would have expected McCormack to...so I would say neither of us are to blame.”

“Right, of course,” Chandler ducked his head, “Thank you then, for not holding a grudge. It would make things difficult at work,” he said lightly, attempting a joke.

Kent smiled slightly, although more out of obligation to make the DI feel comfortable than anything else. He made to step away before hesitating and turning back, “That day, when the incident room was burgled...I was there, I just, I couldn’t do anything to stop them.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Because I felt stupid, weak, vulnerable and I haven’t felt like that in a long time, and I especially didn’t want you to think that I was. Instead of saying that, Kent shrugged and glanced down to watch his feet shift towards one another.

“Well, next time, you tell me. We’re a team, friends even, I don’t want any secrets between us, okay?” Chandler insisted and this time, Kent smiled for real. Friends, friends he could do, even if sometimes it would be hard - really hard - but it would be worth it, wouldn’t it?

“Oh, and sir, before you go,” he called quickly when Joe made the leave, stopping him in his tracks, “Michael...he’s been missing you and I was thinking that maybe, when this case is over, you’d want to come over for dinner?”

“You cook?” Chandler arched an eyebrow surprised.

“Sometimes. I’m not too bad, I promise,” he joked awkwardly and tried not to let the hopefulness show on his face too much.

“I can’t see why not,” Joe answered after a moment with a wide, almost relieved, grin.

Emerson returned it.

 

*

 

The second time.

This was the second time that the criminals had been caught, only to get away in the last few seconds in the one way that meant that Chandler couldn’t catch them - death.

Of course, there was the upside that the crimes had stopped. Anderson has the power vacuum that he wanted to take advantage of and people don’t have to live in fear of east end gangs, unexplained violence and corrupt cops. But to Chandler, it still felt like a failure. With these two, death seems almost like letting them go. They never got to suffer for the people they had hurt, the pain they had caused, or for the lives they had ruined. No, they got death, and everyone left behind had to deal with the consequences. It seemed unfair and unjust and despite what he wanted, there wasn’t anything he could do about that.

He couldn’t push the case aside entirely. It had affected his life much more than he ever would have expected, he doubted he’d ever be able to. Besides, there was still paperwork that needed to be done.

But for tonight, if just for tonight, he wasn’t going to worry about the cases or the murders or the fact that Jimmy and Johnny Brooks got away with murder. Well, he wouldn’t worry about it as much. After everything that had happened, he deserved a night off as much as anyone else.

Chandler had brought red wine because he was always told to bring something when attending a dinner party. Would this count as a dinner party though? It was just Kent and Michael and him. And what if Kent didn’t let red wine? What if he didn’t like wine at all? Chandler had only ever seen him drink beer, and then there was that one time with some fruity cocktail that actually hadn’t been as bad as the clashing colours would suggest. It was these logistics that he had been pondering on the doorstep when Emerson answered.

“Hi,” he greeted.

“Hi,” Chandler repeated back lamely and his gaze swept over the man’s clothes. Kent looked good in purple.

“You’re early.”

“Is that a bad thing? I can come back later if-” he gestured behind him but Kent waved him off.

“Don’t be ridiculous, come in,” he took a step back from the door to allow room for Chandler to enter the house, “Michael’s in the living room playing with his legos, if you want to go in and see him.”

“I didn’t know kids still played with lego anymore,” Chandler mused.

“Oh, he loves the stuff,” Kent shook his head, “Always gets frustrated when I help though. Apparently, I don’t do it right.”

“You can’t be that bad,” he assured, and carefully stepped over the threshold so he was standing beside Kent and smiled, “maybe I can met Michael’s incredibly high standards of lego building.”

“Perhaps,” Emerson murmured and grinned up at him.

He has a good smile, Chandler thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to let me know what you think :)

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't supposed to be multi chaptered but now it's going to be. Probably about three or four chapters, depending on how long it takes to round of and get the cute coupley and family stuff, which will happen.
> 
> Love and appreciate comments and you can leave them here or on my [tumblr](http://imthekeptainnow.tumblr.com)


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